


Reverse Chronology

by ivyblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humour, John finding a way to play with Sherlock's hair, John's blog, M/M, Obliviousness, Unreliable Narrator, potential pulse fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:57:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/pseuds/ivyblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Since John keeps a blog, I thought I'd write his blog posts (minus comments, that would have gotten very complicated) from a slash perspective. Rated G because John's blog is public, so, he doesn't get too inappropriate. I wrote it originally in chronological order, as blogs are normally written, but realized at the last second that it had to be presented in reverse chron. Can be read from the bottom up or from start to finish, whichever pleases you.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reverse Chronology

**Author's Note:**

> Since John keeps a blog, I thought I'd write his blog posts (minus comments, that would have gotten very complicated) from a slash perspective. Rated G because John's blog is public, so, he doesn't get too inappropriate. I wrote it originally in chronological order, as blogs are normally written, but realized at the last second that it had to be presented in reverse chron. Can be read from the bottom up or from start to finish, whichever pleases you.

September 29th, 10:11am: **Oh shut up**  
I might in fact be his date after all. I’m always the last to know. Why didn't anyone tell me?

September 25th, 3:23pm: **We’re Okay**  
You’ve heard about it on the news, I’m sure. Yes, we were involved. The “victim” who was nearly killed was Sherlock, of course. You can see his gangling limbs a bit on the news footage, though his face is hidden. I’m honestly surprised everyone doesn’t recognize him immediately. I’m sure all the key players do, and Moriarty can’t have been pleased. It was a terrible bit of trouble, I’ll tell you. I was a few metres away, helpless to stop it.

I have no idea where the gunshots came from, or who fired them. Terrible people like that though, embroiled in the criminal underworld and prepared to be on Moriarty’s payroll, surely they’d have plenty of enemies. But at least Sherlock’s okay. It was a close call. If you heard us giggling afterwards, please don’t be offended. It was just the shock.

September 21th, 7:34am: **Four nights in a row**  
He may have forgotten that he has a room of his own. Or maybe there’s one test tube too many on his bed. For whatever reason, Sherlock seems to have adopted my bed as the place to sit and do his thinking in the wee hours of the morning. Oh, how everyone will talk! Look, if it were like that, which it isn’t (as I said, I’m not his type, I think he likes a more intellectual sort of bloke, not a soldier like me) I wouldn’t write about it on my blog. (Or would I? I’m sure that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d like to read about!) But keep this in mind: when I discover he’s sitting on my bed, in the extreme wee hours of the morning when I’m barely conscious at all, I’m under the bedclothes, he’s on top of them. I have no idea how long he sits there. But he doesn’t sit at the foot of my bed anymore. He sits opposite me, facing me, fingers steepled. Still, no phone, no computer.

The second night, I think something touched my head. Probably Sherlock. I said something, maybe, “What?”

He said something about mysteries unravelling, maybe something else about his pulse, or his hair, I don’t remember. I fell asleep again. The sound of his voice can be very lulling, particularly at that hour of the morning. Circadian rhythm, you know. The body does not want to be awake at 4am when there’s no danger in sight. At least mine doesn’t.

The third night, I wasn’t even surprised anymore. I just asked him how the thinking was going.

“Really well,” Sherlock responded. “You should try it some time.” He’s really funny at 4am, isn’t he? Yeah. I thought so too. Har har.

Last night, I didn’t say anything. Not much point. We just kind of lay there, just breathing together. I took his wrist and felt his pulse. Still pretty fast.

I don’t really mind. To be honest it’s kind of nice, comforting, in a strange way. If he stops, I’ll still wake up, but he won’t be there to talk to. It’s weird, how you get used to things, come to look forward to them.

September 18th, 9:42am: **An odd sort of waking**  
Sherlock was wide awake and sitting at the foot of my bed when I woke up with a start at about 4am. You might wonder, as did I: what on earth is Sherlock doing in my room at the single worst hour of the night?

“Thinking,” he said when I asked that very question, perhaps laced with a bit more profanity. He had his back to the foot board, his long legs stretched out beside me. No computer, no phone even, if you can believe that. Just him sitting there, in his pajamas. He was quiet for a long while and I nearly fell back to sleep.

“Your breathing is calming,” he said finally. I’m not sure if it was an answer or just an observation. Isn’t that strange? Another thing I’m useful for. Breathing. Who knew?

Then he said, “Go back to sleep,” so I did.

September 15th, 7:25pm: **That’s me, I’m the cabinet on the right**  
Today I got an urgent text from Sherlock telling me to come home as soon as possible. I did. I left the surgery early even, on the presumption of an emergency of some sort. You know what he needed me for? To hold some papers in one hand and his cup of tea in the other. Oh and a pen in my mouth, mustn’t forget about that. He needed “another pair of hands.” We’re back to my theory that I’m just a semi-sentient piece of furniture.

Sherlock says, “Semi-sentient is quite a generous description of most people, John.” So there you have it.

September 13th, 6:52pm: **WARNING**  
Whatever you do, stay out of Leicester Square this evening. Wish I could say more, but I can’t.

September 13, 11:23am  
Oh stop it, I’d had the better part of a bottle of wine. My head is killing me. Don’t you get a bit maudlin when you’re drinking sometimes? I certainly do. Obviously.

September 12th, 11:56pm: **The Insomniac and the Doctor**  
He’s fallen asleep with his head on my lap, which makes it slightly tricky to write this. I know what you’re thinking. Well, I can’t seem to stop you from thinking it, I can’t get Sherlock to respect normal friendship boundaries and I long ago stopped trying, so I guess that’s just how it’s going to be. Think what you want. I really don’t care. He’s tired and an insomniac, so I’m not going to argue about exactly where and how he finally falls asleep.

If people want to imagine that Sherlock would be interested in a bloke like me, I guess I’ll just take it as a compliment. But he’s not, you know. It’s not like that. I don’t think I’m his type.

You can tell how healthy a person is from their hair, did you know that? That sounds like something Sherlock would say, but it’s just a medical fact. I see it with anorexic or bulimic teen girls all the time: their hair is so dry and brittle when I first see them. It’s the first most obvious sign, even before they become so dreadfully thin or have tooth decay issues, or even before the social and family problems arise. Before it gets that bad, you can tell how someone’s doing by the state of their hair.

When I first met Sherlock his hair was a bit stringy and dry, a wild shock of black curls. That made perfect sense when I saw how infrequently he ate, and what he bothered to eat when he did manage it.  But you should touch it now,  it’s soft like a girl’s. Almost downy soft, you wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t expect a man’s hair to feel like this, somehow. Not Sherlock’s, anyway. There’s nothing that’s soft about him, so it’s odd that his hair is. It’s still a wild shock of black curls, at the moment spread over my jeans, but you can tell he’s eating better now just looking at it. It’s glossy. Running my fingers through it, it doesn’t even tangle. My fingers just slide right through. And his curls are shiny just now in the light from my laptop screen. That’s a sign of good health, and for someone with his habits and predilections, I’m going to take full credit for that. It feels nice.

The singed bit I had to cut off is hardly noticeable now. It just curls a little more than the rest.

Even his eyelashes look thicker and longer. I knew several women who would kill for Sherlock’s eyelashes. How’s that for a motive?

His pulse is good, too. Strong and steady on his throat, fainter on his wrist, but perfectly normal. Perfectly healthy. I can feel his heart beating in his chest under my hand. It’s a comforting sensation, feeling the strength of his heart. A bit fast for sleep, really, but he does appear to have a pretty fast basal metabolic rate. No idea what’s normal for him.

Arguably the greatest of mind of all time is cradled in my lap. That’s fairly humbling. I can only feel deeply, deeply lucky.

September 7th, 4:34pm: **Interesting new case?**  
It seems to involve medieval archives. Don’t know all the details yet, more soon. Hopefully I can don my Indiana Jones costume, I’ve been dying to. Sherlock says I look crap in a hat, though.

September 5th, 6:45pm: **Two Severed Legs in the Bathtub**  
You know things have gone a mite too far when you come home from work and head into the loo only to find two severed legs on ice in your bathtub, and the first thing you do isn’t to scream or back out of the room slowly. No, the first thing I did was determine that they aren’t an actual pair of legs. They are legs from two different (and hopefully dead) people. Similar people, certainly. Very similar, possibly closely related, but not the same person. Why there are two severed legs sitting in my bathtub is a mystery, but at least I know that one critical detail. And I deduced it from minor telltale signs, just like Sherlock does; if you’re paying attention you can tell the difference between the lifestyle of the first man and that of the second by the state of their severed legs. And it tells you everything you need to know about this life I’m living that I’m awfully proud that this one little detail will inevitably come up at some point in the very near future, and Sherlock will give me that pleased half-grin of his when he sees I figured that out. He is always so very, flatteringly pleased with me when I get my deductions right.

That’s what passes for a good time around here.

August 22nd, 9:34am  
Shut up, Harry. Seriously. Did you even read what I wrote about what happened to him yesterday? Jesus.

August 21st, 2:32am: **Musical Genius, too**  
You honestly wouldn’t believe how beautifully he plays the violin. Don’t ever imagine he doesn’t have feelings. You can’t fill music with that kind of passion without them, I’m certain. I don’t even care that it’s 2am. I was having a terrible nightmare anyway, I’m pretty glad his playing woke me up.

My eyes are filled with tears from it, that’s how good he is. He could have played professionally. What a different world it would be if he had. A worse one, no doubt. There’d be far more terrible people unarrested and freely roaming out on the streets, scores of them, raping and murdering and causing trouble. But every household in the country would have stacks of Sherlock Holmes CDs. They’d go out to concert halls to listen to him and cry from the beauty of it. He’d have women and men of all kinds hanging off him all the time. Groupies.

He’d hate that.

August 20th, 8:35pm: **Homophobia, Mea Culpa**  
I don’t like seeing Sherlock like this, though he seems to be over it already, sitting there on the sofa tapping away at his phone. He went right back to work as if it’s nothing. I’m still extremely angry about it.

That was out and out homophobia, that thing you keep accusing me of, Harry. Christ. Obviously not something I suffer from. I would never beat a man black and blue like that for the mild bit of flirting Sherlock did. It was way out of proportion.

Well, yeah, it would have made me uncomfortable when I was younger, as you so kindly report, Harry. I dunno, I guess it felt a bit threatening somehow. Like, if you let a poof get to close you might find yourself kissing one without meaning to, suddenly find yourself changed, converted, your deepest and most bizarre fantasies suddenly on display for the whole world to see. That seems to be fairly typical, stupid boy stuff. Desire to be normal, to keep the boundaries super clear. Don’t let anyone ever question your straightness, give no sign of weakness. It all seems to black and white when you’re a kid.

That arsehole should have been bloody flattered, not violently angry.

It’s always thrown around as an insult, isn’t it. But then you get a bit older and think it through and realize, you know, it’s none of anyone’s business what other people get up to privately, consenting adults and all that, and what’s the big deal, anyway? Who cares if some bloke thinks you’re attractive? You don’t have to go home with him. If a girl you don’t fancy flirts a little, that’s an ego boost, even if you’re not interested. Why would this be any different? And the army, well, yeah, there’s a different set of expectations, a certain macho sensibility, but honestly seeing the things you see when you’re on active duty puts a lot of nonsense into perspective.

They say there are no atheists in a foxhole, sure, but there’s also little room for that kind of bigotry when your life is filled with the constant threat of death. It’s not the guns going off, you know, that part’s a relief. It’s the stretches of silence, not knowing if your next step is going to set off an explosion that will rip your limbs off, the next few metres along some dusty road will be your last, constantly expecting your life to end in blood and pain at any moment. When the guns are going off, well, at least you know which direction the danger is coming from. That’s the life, and when that’s what you’re thinking about, worrying about, you don’t really care all that much if the bloke next to you is writing letters home to another bloke or not. For a few months the bloke next to me was in fact writing home to another bloke. He was a brave man, you know. Braver than most. You don’t want to know that story. Well, I don’t want to tell it. Let’s leave it at this: I’ve had and witnessed enough existential crises in my time. I don’t really care who’s gay. Make your choices, I will support them. It’s just odd to me that everyone makes these assumptions about me and Sherlock all the time.

He looks like a broken bird, curled up on the sofa, black and blue and having to breathe through him mouth.

He says I’m overreacting. He says he’s fine, it’s nothing. It doesn’t seem fine to me at all.

August 20th, 5:11pm  
If I still had a gun, of course. I was thinking about Afghanistan.

August 20th, 5:03pm: **Bastards**  
Some things were said today, well, shouted, at Sherlock, that really upset me. It got ugly. I don’t mind being mistaken for his boyfriend if makes anyone slightly less likely to attack him like that, in the middle of the street, verbally or physically. Yes, I will fight you if you attack him. Of course I will, he’s my flatmate and my friend.

I’m fairly certain Sherlock himself is gay, though I might be wrong. He said something once that gave that impression, but then, it might have been a diversion of some sort. Maybe he’s left a trail of broken female hearts behind him? I can imagine it, frankly. I’ve seen him flirt with people a few times as part of a case, to get information, and he’s pretty skilled at it. Clearly has had a fair bit of practice. He’s better than me when I’m not faking it. And he is, after all, a very attractive man. Women look at him like that all the time. I don’t know, really, what his story there is, I haven’t come right out and asked him. It’s not as if he brings anyone home for the night, so it hardly matters. Well except for me, yes I know, har har, don’t bother with that joke. FLATMATE. It’s not very funny right now.

Flirting as a means of information gathering  didn’t work out very well this time. There is such a thing as flirting with the wrong man as part of an investigation, that much is certain. I’ve never seen Sherlock misread his mark so badly, though he claims he didn’t misread a thing. Another bleeding lip, a black eye and an awful bruise on his cheekbone. His nose is swollen, too. I was a little afraid it was broken, frankly, given the force of that punch. Why must the arseholes always aim for his face? Sherlock seems to have no healthy fear of pain or injury, no matter how many times he ends up sitting on the table in the kitchen as my de facto patient. The wanker got worse than he gave, you can be sure of that. I’m perfectly happy to ice my fist when I get home, it’s really no problem for me. Consider that a warning. My commitment to “do no harm” ends when your fist gets into Sherlock’s face.

If I’d brought my gun, that would have went a whole other way, let me tell you.

August 9th, 12:01pm: **The Requirements of the Hippocratic Oath**  
I took the Hippocratic Oath, I am committed to making my patients healthier. Sherlock is not strictly my patient, per se, but I do feel a certain level of protectiveness about his health and welfare, you understand. So you’ll be pleased to know that for the last couple of months I’ve managed to improve Sherlock’s health by following one simple rule: he’s required to eat three times a day. Revolutionary, isn’t it? I’m thinking about packaging up that bit of doctorly wisdom in a three volume smash hit. Vol 1, Breakfast, Vol 2, Lunch, Vol 3, Supper. Maybe I’ll go on that Oprah show. I’m sure to be a celebrity any day now.

August 5th, 10:23am: **Finally**  
A break in the heat! What a relief. If it had gone on another day Sherlock threatened to do all his deducing entirely naked. The world has been saved that particular sight. Co-ed naked crime-solving. I’m sure the Met would have been right on board.

August 4th, 11:36pm: **HOT**  
I don’t recall London nights being quite this hot. It’s not like Kandahar, where it’s insanely hot but at least dry. It’s humid and damp and broiling in London currently, with thick clouds hanging overhead threatening to break. It feels like there’s a rucksack full of rocks on my back. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, though he’s in shirtsleeves for once, and his face is a bit shiny with sweat. He’s buzzing around the flat like a bee, going from pile of papers to the bookshelves to his microscope.

I’ve taken two cold showers today to get some relief. I hope that storm comes soon and breaks this heat. Will have to take another before I can sleep.

Sherlock just scowled at me and said the funniest thing: he asked me to turn the heat down. No knowledge of the solar system OR any inclination to notice that we’re in the middle of a HEATWAVE. Oh, let me go turn off the rads, London. My fault, what was I thinking?

August 2nd, 9:34am: **Is this really my life?**  
Right now, at this very second, there is a dish on the kitchen worktop with human testicles in it. Three of them. I have no idea why. You’re jealous, aren’t you? I can tell. Who wouldn’t want three extra testicles?

July 27th, 8:53pm: **The Poisoned Tea Cups**  
Case solved! It was the sister-in-law. Discovered just in time too, before any serious damage was done. Three sets of silverware and a tiny vial of poison hidden in the china cabinet proved it. Sherlock even knew to look for it on the left side rather than the right, in the sister’s house rather than the sister-in-law’s. Amazing. D.I. ________ was very pleased, he even offered to buy us a round, though Sherlock declined. He clearly loves it when he gets everything right, when everyone around him is so completely bowled over and impressed, but he works very hard not to show it. If I didn’t know him as well as I do I might not recognize the signs, but he can’t hide them from me. I said, as I usually do: “That’s extraordinary, Sherlock, fantastic,” and for once the D.I.’s whole team agreed. Even the nasty ones! You should have seen Sherlock try to hide the delight on his face. But he played it cool, and we ordered a bottle of wine at the restaurant afterwards, just the two of us. That grin never left his face for a second the whole evening. I don’t even care that we got the “romantic” table. Sherlock deserves the candlelight and the nice view.

July 23rd, 8:44am: **The Case of the Happy Consulting Detective**  
Another case! Sherlock is delighted. He looks all serious and unaffected when D.I. _______ is in the room explaining it to him, but the moment he leaves Sherlock leaps in the air and dances his happy little jig. Most of you have probably never seen him happy. Maybe that’s why you misunderstand him so terribly. Sociopath my arse.

Of course he gets that happy about serial killers and threats of murder, which I suppose might seem a bit inappropriate. Each to his own.

July 22th, 5:56am: **Insomniac, up early**  
It’s really early, Sherlock’s asleep, I think. I mean, I didn’t crack the door open and verify, but he’s in his bedroom, at least I think he is, and I don’t hear a sound, so I presume that means sleep. He hasn’t been doing enough of that recently, so I hardly want to wake him to check to see if he’s still there and hasn’t raced off to be held at gunpoint, or whether he’s been poisoned and is slowly dying in there unable to call out. The silence in here is a bit off-putting. It’s so rarely completely quiet.

It’s a bit creepy. Feels...unnatural.

I hope he’s alright.

Yeah, okay, he’s just asleep. I checked. Honestly, with a flatmate like that, you want to check to make sure someone didn’t come in and kidnap him or run him through with a broadsword, it’s hard not to. I’m a doctor, after all. He could have been bleeding out in there. He’s curled up on his bed, which, for the record, is half-covered over with books and papers and beakers and god knows what else. He’s kind of threaded through it all and contorted, unwiling even in sleep to risk shifting any of his carefully ordered research. He looks so much younger when he’s asleep. More fragile, somehow. There’s a lot of swagger in him, as if his prodigious waking mind fills him out and makes him a bigger man than he actually is.

I didn’t use a mirror to make sure he’s breathing. I could tell because there’s a post-it note stuck to the side of his nose and I could see it moving with every inhale. I didn’t put the post-it note there myself, but it’s a good idea.

July 19th, 1:15am  
What the hell was that noise? Sounds like half of London just blew up. Was that a dream? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I hate my subconscious. Maybe it’s time to find another therapist.

July 15th, 3:31pm: **His name is Buckles**  
Has anyone seen a very shaggy grey and white dog about 19 kilos running around in the Soho area? Please let us know. It’s not that he’s so much of a witness as a piece of key evidence (apparently). We need to find him before it rains. Which might be any second, from the look of things.

July 13th, 6:23pm: **Ignore my sister, and an apology**  
Okay, to address the various comments, and Harry, you’re really not helping, please stay off the internet after you’ve come home from the bar, okay? No, I’m not homophobic, that’s not what this is about. Seriously, no. I shouldn’t have said “what kind of man” etc. and I shouldn’t have used certain language. That was thoughtless of me. Men can, of course, show affection or gratitude with flowers whenever they like without deserving name-calling. Other people should just avoid jumping to conclusions, I don’t care how obvious it looks to you, we’re not an item. We are flatmates and friends.

July 11th, 8:30pm: **It’s not what you think**  
Dear people of London, seriously, honestly, I am NOT Sherlock’s date. You can stop giving us those knowing looks now. It’s embarrassing and its clearly getting in the way of my dating life. (Sorry, Sarah, I don’t blame you for it a bit.)  You seem to know all about my blog, so listen to me: we have separate bedrooms! I’m aware that he brought me flowers this evening, in full view many of you, but that’s only because of some minor work I got up to recently that resulted in Sherlock remaining alive for another day, okay? It really doesn’t even seem to occur to him that he’s sending out these signals that I’m a sodding bender who fancies him. What sort of man gets flowers from another man he’s not in any way related to? Sure, he’s a genius, but somehow he can’t figure out that these kinds of public displays of affection or gratitude are only going to encourage people to imagine the absolute wrong thing about us. About ME.

Oh. He I bet he did that on purpose. He’s taking the piss, isn’t he. Damn you, Sherlock.

July 3rd, 9:45pm: **But is he as mature as a 10 year old? That’s the real question**  
In case you were wondering, yes, Sherlock certainly is smarter than a 10 year old. I may have created a monster. Just watch; you might see Sherlock on a quiz show before long. Do you think they’ll take him once they realize it’s clear he can’t lose? Unless you put him on a pop culture one. Then he wouldn’t even rank.

July 2nd, 4:13pm: **The Case of the Wandering Diamond**  
Another case done. It was a long one; I’m working on writing the whole thing up, I’ll post it once I’m done. Oh wait: Sherlock says I can’t yet; only once the client in question is dead. She’s not an older woman, so it might be a while. Oh well, sorry.

You would have loved the story, though. It was very daring, and as usual Sherlock’s keen ability to deduce the truth of a situation impressed absolutely everyone. Sherlock says no one is ever as impressed as I am, but I know that’s not true. I’m just the one who’s honest about it. He was fantastic. No matter how many times I see him piece the truth together from bits of seemingly-mundane hints and clues that no one else even stoops to notice, it never stops absolutely gobsmacking me. Whenever I think I have the slightest grasp on what Sherlock can see and parse, he manages to deduce even more than I thought possible. Amazing.

Though I did learn that he’s never seen BrainTeaser before. He seemed surprised that there even are quiz shows on telly. Can you imagine that, going through your whole life with a brain like that and never once showing off how you’d trounce all the players? Remarkable. Wonder if he’s ever seen Jeopardy.

June 21th, 11:34pm  
If I die in the next few hours, I want everyone to know it’s Sherlock’s fault.

June 21st, 10:23am: **Update**  
New case! Looks like a simple one. Can't possibly be too dangerous. More soon.

June 15th, 1:46pm: **What, the?**  
You’ve got to be kidding me. Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

June 5th, 11:54pm: **Stop it, Harry**  
Harry, I’m going to permanently ban you from my blog if you don’t stop leaving comments like that. Please ignore my sister, everyone. There’s one in every family, right?

June 2nd, 9:45am: **The Case of the Bloodied Consulting Detective**  
Case solved. It was a bit touch and go for bit there. Sherlock came back home with a bloody lip and some pretty deep lacerations on his arm. We may not have food in this kitchen, but we are pretty well equipped to cope with all manner of medical mishaps. I refuse to perform any kind of suturing when there are eyeballs in a jar staring at me from the worktop, so it’s a good thing Mrs. Hudson (bless her heart) and I did a pretty decent job of cleaning the place up before everything got out of hand. The table was at least clear and disinfected when I stitched up Sherlock’s arm. I’m fairly certain at this point that Sherlock can only have flatmates with war zone experience. He creates war zones everywhere he goes, it’s best to know how to cope with it.

I really wish he wouldn’t run off without me like that. I know I’m not his bodyguard (he’s perfectly capable of defending himself, as he’s fond of telling everyone), but I don’t much like the idea of him out there on his own facing guns and fists. That feels like my job, worrying about that sort of thing. His job is solving crimes.

He says he can do both. At the same time.

He’s an awfully skinny bastard, Sherlock is. That’s not exactly news, but it was certainly make exceptionally clear to me in the wee hours of the morning. All skin and bones, really. I mean, he’s pretty strong, and he uses his height to his advantage. But when you see him hurt, his pretentious clothes ripped and bloodied, well, he seems so much smaller. Like a bird without its puffed up feathers. I wouldn’t say subdued, or even weaker in any way, but he seems so much more vulnerable. He sure packs a lot of power into his slight frame.

I need to make sure he eats more often. He really can’t afford to lose any weight, I could have counted his ribs from across the room. With his shirt off, honestly, he reminded me of a very awkward and angry teenager. It’s hard to stay mad at him when you see him like that. His mind is so much bigger than he is.

June 2nd, 2:14am  
I could really do without this. Sleep? What’s that? Is that some actual biological need, or just optional time-waster? Sherlock has his opinions, let me tell you.

June 2nd, 12:56am: **Do people actually use brass knuckles, or is that just in the movies?**  
A man just hammered on the door with what sounded like a pair of brass knuckles. By the time I got to the door he was gone. Sherlock? Where are you? He’s not answering my texts. Anyone seen him? I’m not even certain he had both of his shoes on when he ran out of here.

June 1st, 10:44pm: **BANG**  
Excuse me while I go clean up whatever the hell it was that just exploded in the kitchen. Jesus, Sherlock, honestly. You left the front door hanging open when you stormed out of here, where the hell are you off to at this time of night?! I’m fairly certain whatever is spattered all over the kitchen worktop probably had a human origin. This is what life is like here in Baker St., folks. All glamour, all the time. And this is why we buy rubber gloves by carton. For the glamour. Yep.

May 26th, 11:01pm: **The Fastest Case Ever Solved**  
Started on and solved a case within an hour and a half today. I think that’s some kind of record. Correction: Sherlock just rudely read my screen as I was typing, he says his record is 3 and a half minutes. I don’t know whether he’s pulling my leg or not. Honestly, with the speed at which his mind works, I don’t find it inconceivable. You can really only marvel at him.

We are still perfectly ordinary flatmates, in case you were wondering (I know you were). This evening, Sherlock momentarily used my head to rest his tea cup on while sorting through some papers. While everyone imagines we have this romantic relationship, in reality I’m more like a bit of furniture he’s dragged home. He put his feet on my knee while we were watching the telly tonight, too. So consider me more like an end table or a footstool, would you?

May 24th, 10:34am: **Tesla Coils...got any?**  
Anyone know where I can find a set of Tesla coils in Tottenham? It’s urgent.

May 19th, 9:46pm: **Of Siblings and Fire**  
Had dinner with my sister Harry this evening. The restaurant was rubbish, but maybe I’ve gotten used to the royal treatment I usually get when I go for out dinner with Sherlock. Over dinner I learned that Harry has some opinions I do not share and theories I do not subscribe to. I won’t recount them all here (it would take too long and I wouldn’t want to be seen as endorsing any of them). (They are all about me, for the record. Me and my flatmate and etc.)  After dinner, I went home.

Since I foolishly left Sherlock to his own devices for a mere two hours, he opted to indulge in some experiments involving fire. You know what’s a bad idea? Experiments involving fire. He lit about 12,000 candles in the kitchen and sitting room, and a bit of his hair must have dangled into one of the 12,000 flames. You know what smells terrible? Burning hair.

The fire alarm went off.

Our landlady was in a panic.

Sherlock looks a bit singed.

Do you know how long it takes to snuff out 12,000 candles?

Sherlock says, “it wasn’t 12,000 it was 85.” Still. 85 candles is a lot of candles. Too many, I reckon.

I had to trim his hair just now. It looks a bit better, but he’s kind of lopsided.

There’s really nothing you can do to get the smell of burning hair out of a flat, is there. All the windows are already wide open.

May 14th, 5:35pm: **The Mad Uncle**  
As for the last case, yes, I know it seems unbelievable, but it’s all true. I was there, I saw Sherlock put it all together in that quick mind of his. It’s a surprise every time, even when you know it’s coming. He really did know it was the uncle, not the brother, long before the police got the confession. He told me, though I couldn’t see the connection at the time. He worked it out from the smudges on the kitchen wall, and a bit of ash on the front walk. Incredible, isn’t it? The medical profession should make a study of him. He’s clearly wired differently than the rest of us. Though of course there’s no way he’d sit still long enough to be studied by anyone. He’d probably make something explode just to keep himself entertained. It will have to be a post mortem, then. Hopefully, for all our sakes, no time soon.

May 12th, 7:52pm: **Et tu, Bakers of London?**  
Visited a bakery in central London today, run by no one who’s ever even heard of Sherlock. No favours, no sordid history of crime, nothing. They still asked him if his boyfriend (meaning me, oh yes) wanted anything. Honestly, what is it? Do we wander around holding hands without my noticing? Most of the time, when we’re in public, he rolls his eyes at me or disregards everything I say, or sends me on errands, or treats me like a walking version of his friend the skull. Do you know how many times he’s left me at crime scenes to find my own way home? Let’s just say it’s more than once. Does this strike you as healthy relationship behaviour? If everyone thinks we’re an item, I don’t really understand why more people aren’t staging interventions for me. Zero tolerance, people.

May 10th, 8:15pm: **NOT HIS DATE**  
Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t think I’m Sherlock’s date? Honestly. He never corrects anyone, either. Not once. Leaves it up to me. I think he enjoys watching me squirm. Everybody tells me they read my blog, so you’d think I’d get the last word on the subject. But no. No matter what I say or do, no matter who I’m actually dating (hi Sarah!), I seem to forever be Sherlock’s partner, and not just the professional kind. How does that even happen?

How can something that’s not true seem so obvious to the rest of you? Honestly. I think I'd know if I fancied my flatmate. Sheesh.


End file.
